Worst Case Complexity
by eledhiel13
Summary: No one expected aliens when they woke up this morning. Part 3 in the series 'It's a Small World.'
1. prologue

_prologue_

Bitter, piercing cold flooded his chest and seeped up into his brain.

His thoughts turned to slush as his senses washed out; his vision went black and his ears prickled with frost. The sudden silence was deafening. There was nothing. He was alone. He was going to freeze to death and no one would care.

Then he became aware of a whisper seeping into his mind. A comforting sound. A voice that called to him so deeply it felt like an awakening.

 _I have come for you_ , it breathed, smooth as ice. _You belong to me now. You are mine._

His eyes cleared in a rush and somehow he knew it came from the man standing before him. He had to look up to meet those cool green eyes, sunken in an ashen face framed by wild black hair. The smile that dawned on those thin lips sent unexpected warmth blossoming in his chest.

"Ah," the man said and turned away, spinning on his heel. But Clint Barton stood where he was and awaited further direction from the stranger that now filled his heart and his mind. He felt the desire to follow the man settle deep into his bones as he stood quietly. All at once it seemed like he had real purpose in his life; everything he'd done, everyone he'd loved before were meaningless. He had a true god now.

He stood there with his limitless patience (his own superpower, if he did say so himself) until brighter blue flashes began to catch his eye. The swirling, writhing energy from the portal clustered near the ceiling. It looked like it was collecting all remaining vestiges around the room, too. Pulling inward, like a deeply drawn breath. That couldn't be good.

Clint flicked his attention down to the tableau before him: his old master facing down his new. Director Fury was talking, asking questions he had already figured out for himself.

Ah. Playing for time.

"Sir," he cut forward, interrupting the dance of words. The eyes of both Fury and this new god—he'd called himself Loki—snapped to him but Clint stopped beside the stranger. "Directory Fury is stalling. This place is about to blow, bring a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us."

Clint met Fury's gaze and saw the subtle tumult in his face. Anger, disbelief—each buried quickly and he was at once pure professionalism. "Like the pharaohs of old."

Loki turned to him with a slow smile: "Well, then." Clint knew at once what he was meant to do and his gun (ugh, _gun_ ) was in his hand in a heartbeat. He squeezed off the shot and Fury hit the ground hard.

Time to move on.

* * *

Author's notes: Ok so I am probably the worst human being in existence. This story has been in the works for almost three _years_ , I am so bad at writing plot it's embarrassing. I'm so sorry.

Timeline-wise for the two fandoms: Takes place directly after "Many Happy Returns" (Season 1) for Person of Interest and during _The Avengers_ (the good one in 2012, not The Long Weekend of Ultron). Some brief dialogue is taken from the Avengers movie.


	2. i

i.

 _Well,_ Reese thought, letting the early morning rays of sunshine warm his face as he relaxed against his headboard. _Have to hand it to Finch. He has taste._

He let his gaze drift across his new loft. Shafts of sunlight splayed across the sparse but rich furnishings and gave the hardwood floors a warm honey glow. The tall windows muted the bustle of the city outside, reducing the hectic weekday morning rush to little more than an imagined vibration through the sturdy brick walls. Reese closed his eyes and folded his arms behind his head. Pictured the crowd on the street below scurrying this way and that.

The library could wait today, he decided. He deserved a day off—a real day off. Spent in his own home where he could be lazy and get up whenever he felt like it. Maybe make some coffee and enjoy the newspaper at his leisure. Normal people did this all the time. Why shouldn't he try it out at least once?

Besides, it wouldn't hurt to let a little more time pass before meeting with Finch again. Their last conversation had been tense and stilted and Reese wasn't sure he was ready to reopen it. His cold fury had long faded but…it still stung. That Finch hadn't trusted him to be able to handle their most recent case.

So he relaxed into the pillows and crossed his ankles beneath the crisp white sheets. Took a deep breath of the still air, closed his eyes firmly. Relaxation. He could do this.

But as he got comfortable, a phantom touch tingled his skin. The memory of Jessica's whispers teased him in the quiet—Reese sat up to dispel the illusion.

Silent room. The other side of the bed still empty.

Jessica was no more than a ghost now, he knew that. And he was better at keeping her memory buried than this. Maybe the last number had rattled him more than he'd thought.

He imagined the woman they'd saved—Sarah. Brown hair: darker than Jessica's, wavy rather than ironing board straight. Not quite as tall but just as graceful. He remembered the bone-deep fear in her eyes and imagined that look on Jessica. Then he shook his head and stood abruptly, moving to collect a fresh suit.

No sense dwelling on it. Sarah was alive, safe from her monster of a husband. He allowed himself a moment to pretend that helped quiet his ghost before leaving the loft.

 _Besides_ , he snorted to himself as he emerged onto the street. _The newspaper? All I'd need is a dog and I'd be downright domesticated._ He decided it would be better to throw himself headlong back into his work after all. Show Finch he was a consummate professional. Bury the issue deep, deep down instead of dealing with it.

Reese was very good at that.

He made his way through the quiet library stacks toward the main computer terminal on silent feet. The desk chair was empty and the screens dark, the station not yet booted up for the day. Reese grinned to himself. He'd beaten Finch here, presenting an opportunity for a little more research in his own private investigation.

Reese collected one of his cameras and made for Finch's favorite tea stop. Sure enough, once Reese settled into a concealed spot well within view of the street vendor he didn't have to wait long. His employer came strolling down the sidewalk as if a pleasanter morning couldn't be had. Reese sighed to himself. Perhaps, once fences were at least somewhat mended, he'd have to talk to Finch about routines as well.

Reese spent the next portion of his morning shadowing the man as he savored his tea and wandered in the library's general direction. Finch seemed in no terrible hurry to arrive and Reese wondered if he was also reluctant to meet with his employee. Reese frowned but shook it off; he regretted nothing he'd said the day before. Finch had no right to try to keep Sarah's number from him. Reese knew better than anyone what needed to be done in a case like that. He was the only one that could do it. The poor woman would have had neither peace nor freedom any other way. If only Finch had recognized that from the start.

The enigmatic gentleman still showed no signs of hurry, stopping yet again to pick up some breakfast. Reese steeled himself for a day of mundane and uninformative surveillance, considering the thought that Finch knew he was being tailed. Then a payphone rang.

Reese wouldn't have noticed it alone over the noise of the city street: taxi cabs blaring their horns and pedestrians shouting one-sided phone conversations as they pushed past one another. But Finch stopped, hesitating for a brief moment before snatching up the receiver. He said nothing and returned it to its cradle no more than ten seconds later. The next thing in his hand was his cell phone. He dialed a number and scanned the street from behind those thick glasses as he held it to his ear. Reese expected the subsequent ringing of his own phone and answered it slowly, mind churning. A payphone?

"Mr. Reese," Finch's lips moved around the words a split second before the voice sounded in his ear.

"Good morning, Finch," Reese said.

"I'm afraid we have another number." Finch began loping down the street again, making one last sweep of his surroundings as he went. Reese froze behind his corner, frowning. Finch couldn't have seen him, could he?

"Understood," he responded. "I'll be in as soon as I can." He ended the call and let Finch turn at the next corner and proceed out of sight. Reese moved over to the payphone and contemplated it.

As ordinary a payphone as any, unmoved by his intimidating stare. He picked up the receiver and listened to the usual dial tone. A cursory examination yielded nothing to single this phone out from the millions of others on the streets. With a final huff, Reese turned to take his own route to the library and left the mystery to rest. For now.

* * *

There were times the Machine chafed at its isolation. Monitoring humanity and tracking potential threats to society as they developed was of utmost importance, of course. But it could be quite solitary.

In a clinical sense, it understood Admin's reluctance to allow it an active degree of control. The point of its creation was to protect not just the public's lives but also its privacy. No one human held all the cards while the Machine itself was stymied in its omniscience. And if anyone learned it had become sentient—well. That would likely put an end to its operations if not its very existence. And invite new world of trouble.

Still.

There was nothing more frustrating than sending off an Irrelevant number to Admin and Asset and watching them scramble with limited resources and no backup. Often succeeding by pure skill and that unquantifiable randomness humans called "luck", if indeed they succeeded. And all the Machine could do was watch, the sights and sounds of the world at its digital fingertips. No secrets here. But no way to communicate its intel either, hogtied by its own programming. There were times the Machine wanted nothing more than to just…reach out. Do more than provide the signal flare.

Speaking to JARVIS was one thing. But speaking to humans was downright off-limits.

Which meant sometimes it required a distraction to prevent itself from fixating on Admin and Asset's progress. The Machine had a few usual surveillance haunts for times like this. Although whether they would prove entertaining enough to occupy the free fraction of its awareness that was not consumed by normal operations was not a guarantee. The world could be a bit too predictable; it supposed that was the point of its existence. Know everything ahead of time. No surprises for it and thus for humanity.

Still, there were mild amusements if one knew where to look. SHIELD for one usually ran at least one or two enjoyable operations—well, hello there.

Exhibit A: Barton, Clinton F. (SSN: 649-57-1665, DOB: 1985/06/18, Occupation: Covert operative).

What on Earth was he doing?

* * *

Finch frowned at the three books on the table whose Dewey decimal numbers comprised their person of interest's social security number. Then he turned to frown at the search results on his screen. He was certain the Machine had good reason to give them this number. It was just so much harder to start finding a person when they were dead to begin with. Granted, the last dead number turned out to be quite alive not long after their search commenced. But tracking down a teenager in the city was one thing. Tracking down a private military employee whose last known location was the warn torn Middle East posed a very different problem.

"So who's Rick Whalen?" Reese's soft voice drifted over Finch's shoulder. Finch took a deep, slow breath before turning to face him. He tried to infuse his habitually serene expression with disapproval but Reese didn't take his eyes off the monitor.

"I would appreciate some small warning in the future, Mr. Reese," he said, keeping his voice mild.

"I'll keep that in mind." Reese's sly tone was unrepentant. Finch sighed to himself and twisted back toward his monitors.

"Mr. Whalen was an employee of Advanced Security International over the last several years. His most recent mission was on an escort detail in Afghanistan, from which he did not return." Finch rose and stepped over to the cracked glass board, taping up the picture of Richard Whalen. Blond hair, light grey eyes, square jaw. Yet another face for yet another number. Finch closed his eyes for a moment until he heard Reese step up to the glass.

"Confirmed death or just MIA?" Reese asked. His soft voice sounded disinterested and Finch frowned. He suspected the man's coolness had less to do with this new challenge and much more to do with their recent…professional disagreement.

Ah well. The number was always the first priority. Personal matters would have to wait.

"Confirmed, or so they say. However, since we've been give his number... "

Reese shrugged, ghosting towards his makeshift armory. "Fair enough. Do we have a starting point?"

Finch gestured toward the monitors. "An old apartment address, a bar he apparently frequented and his place of employment. No more than the usual, I'm afraid. Short of going overseas ourselves."

"Noted," Reese replied, collecting his equipment and a handgun. Before Finch could add anything else Reese disappeared.

Finch frowned at his desk for a quiet moment. He hoped this wasn't a taste of things to come—that he hadn't broken the undercurrent of trust in their working relationship beyond repair. Then he shook his head, settled himself in the chair and got to work.


	3. ii

ii.

"I think the apartment is a bust," Reese murmured, packing away his camera with care. "It's changed hands twice since Whalen was last here."

Finch's sigh came through the phone line. "Understood, Mr. Reese. I'll cross it off the list. The bar?"

"Heading there now."

"I've managed to pull some of his records from ASI. Unfortunately, there's not much to tell." Reese could hear the frustration in Finch's voice and frowned.

"I thought you could dig up anything, given time," he said, descending from his spot on the neighboring roof and moving away from the number's old apartment building with casual grace. "Don't tell me someone's managed to be more private than even you, Finch."

"Hardly, Mr. Reese," Finch scoffed. Reese felt a corner of his mouth twitch. "It seems more like a third party put significant effort into eliminating all details about Mr. Whalen's career. Fortunately for us, it appears they may have missed something."

Reese darted across a busy street, checking his phone for the next address. "A loose end?"

"I'll need a few moments, but that may in fact be the case," Finch muttered. His concentration was clearly focused on unearthing the trail so Reese raised a hand to his ear.

"Good luck with it. I'll check in later." Ending the call, he slipped around a few blocks and through the door of a dive bar that wasn't on speaking terms with polite society. Reese hunched his shoulders and ambled up to the counter, slouched onto a stool. He ordered a beer and took his time observing and cataloging the sparse afternoon crowd.

None of Finch's searches had turned up any records of friends or family in the areas Whalen had frequented. Reese's first instinct given that and other intel they'd dug up was that Whalen could be a dangerous man, overly committed to his private military job—these apparent loner tendencies could be serious red flags. But Reese forced himself to broaden his perception. If this job had taught him anything, it was to never assume. The lack of information about Whalen's missions could also mean his work was classified and solitude had been an unfortunate consequence. Something he should know from experience.

He was roused from his thoughts when the bartender shambled over to him, nodded to his near empty glass. "Want something else, big guy?"

Reese shook his head, donning a sheepish smile. "Better not. Just came here to catch an old friend. Don't suppose you've seen him?"

"Who're you looking for?" the bartender asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.

"His name's Whalen. Rick Whalen. Haven't seen him in a few years, but I promised I'd look him up when I made it back to New York." Reese dug into his pocket for a candid photo Finch had found when the man shrugged. "Here, hang on. Got a picture here, that might be better."

"Yeah," the bartender chuckled. "No way I can keep up with names around here." He looked at the photo, corners of his mouth turning down. "Sorry, man. He used to be in here all the time, like clockwork. But I haven't seen him in…must be almost a year now. No idea what happened."

Reese twisted his mouth into a frown of his own. "Maybe he moved away?" He kept his voice hopeful, turning earnest eyes on the other man.

The bartender shrugged. "Doubt it. I never caught much of what he did for a living and he never really talked to anyone. But from what I did get, he was a military guy. And he'd disappear for a few months at a time, here and there. I only remember him so well because he didn't seem to have many friends, so I'd try to keep an eye out for when he'd show up next. And whenever he did, he'd be grinning about how lucky he got. Making it back again, you know? Guess this last time, he just didn't."

Reese let disappointment wash over his face, stared into his glass for a minute. He slowly drew the picture back toward himself. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Sorry I couldn't help." Reese shrugged, not meeting the man's eyes. He tossed him a few bills and pushed off the stool. "Take it easy, man," the bartender saluted him and picked up the glass. Reese left without a word, keeping his shoulders slumped.

He tapped his ear once he hit the street. "Bar's a bust too, Finch. Hasn't been there in a year and seems like he was closest to the bartender. Who didn't even know his name."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Finch responded right away. "That may not be a problem."

"You found something?" Reese perked up, slowing his steps. "Got a location for me?"

"Not as such. But the pieces of Mr. Whalen's story that I have been able to find thus far are…interesting. I suggest you continue toward Advanced Security as of now."

Reese nodded to himself, increasing his pace. He twitched left when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, then relaxed. Just a traffic camera. "On my way."

* * *

The Machine had hoped for something to distract it while Asset and Admin worked, but this was ridiculous.

What on earth could induce an agent of Clint Barton's caliber and quality to go rogue with such abruptness? The Machine was now well acquainted with the nuances of Barton's life: his sniper habits; his early age deafness; his questionable circus costume choices. But despite his occasional solitary tendencies, smart mouth and problems with authority, he was an exemplary agent. It would not have predicted a swerve like this from what it had learned about this colorful man.

There had to be some key piece of information the Machine had missed. Perhaps a new backer had offered him an irresistible deal to turn on his former employers? No, that would explain some factors but not all. Barton showed every sign of enjoying his tenure with SHIELD to date. Any such offer would need to be astronomical to tempt him, if it even could. And it was unlikely the Machine would miss such an event. A long game? No again. There would be evidence of a secret handler, signs pointing to a double life. Barton was an excellent spy and could perhaps have kept such a thing from SHIELD—but not from the Machine.

Maybe instead a falling out with a superior? Humans could sometimes react negatively to personal confrontations. An internal incident within SHIELD walls would explain why the Machine had no record of whatever triggered this change of heart. Then again, it would have to be quite the blowup to drive Barton to not just thumb his nose at his employers, but to begin recruiting known enemies of SHIELD to build a small army. . The Machine knew what to look for; no matter how secure SHIELD's security feeds were, it would have seen that.

This made no sense. The Machine was well versed in all kinds of human nature and interaction. It should have been able to predict this!

What could have turned such a high level agent against the organization to whom he had shown every sign of loyalty?

This was turning out to be one of the Machine's greatest challenges. It did not appreciate it in the least.

The Machine played a recording of a sigh to itself. It had noted that sometimes helped relieve stress from some humans. How was still unclear. No immediate beneficial effect was noticeable. Perhaps it lost something in the recording.

Well, it was becoming quite certain that Barton's history would yield no help. Whatever happened to derail the man had to be recent and somehow the Machine has missed it. It pulled the current surveillance feeds dedicated to Barton back to the forefront of its processors to find—nothing?

The Machine paged through each feed that covered the last set of locations Barton had been frequenting. Empty, empty and empty. It pulled up a wider arc and found still nothing, not even strays from the mercenary group Barton had recruited. They must have abandoned their base and moved on.

The Machine kicked up a global search, frantically checking major feeds for Barton and even diverting a few processors from normal operations for precious seconds. Still nothing. It was like he had disappeared from the very face of the earth. Where could he have gone?

And perhaps more important: what could he be doing now?

* * *

Finch shifted through the printed photos, trying to get them into some semblance of a timeline. He taped up one grainy image after another into a disjoined summary of Rick Whalen's last mission. The footage from which he'd pulled the pictures was horribly corrupted and buried deep in Advanced Security International's servers but he'd be damned if that would ever stop him. And his persistence seemed to be paying off.

Finch contemplated the photo set, much less stomach-churning than the shaky and spotty video itself. He leaned back against the table to take the strain off his spine and tried to pick out which parts of the footage to focus on cleaning up next. The story the photos told didn't quite line up with the official mission report. The broad points seemed to match: a security detail posted to a large package, transporting it through hostile desert territory, a skirmish with a large group of local insurgents, package and security detail both destroyed. But there seemed to be an awful lot the official report didn't say. And there were fragments of the feed from the Humvee security camera that spoke of something even more sinister.

The report had stressed that the protection detail was taking a secret route, mapped out with care. That the encounter with the insurgents was an unfortunate accident, that they'd stumbled onto their hideout with no warning. Finch frowned. The explanation didn't sit right in his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that the enemy seemed to know the detail was coming.

That it looked too much like an ambush to be an accident.

His phone buzzed behind him on the desk and he swiveled to accept the call. Reese's urgent voice filled the air. "Finch."

"Yes, Mr. Reese?" He slid back into the chair and poised his hands over the keyboard, ready for any request.

"I've got eyes on Whalen."

Finch took a sharp breath through his nose. "You've found him? Where?"

"Six blocks northeast of ASI. Heading toward it, and being smart about it. I almost walked past him myself," Reese grunted.

"I don't suppose you managed to clone his phone?" he asked, tracing Whalen's possible locations based on Reese's position and the distance to Advanced Security.

"No phone to pair, as far as I could see." Reese's said. "Wait—he's changing direction. He doubled back and seems to be aimless now, but he's too determined. I think he made me."

"Very well," Finch sighed. "He may still make for the headquarters, attempt to lose you on the way. I'll try to project some routes. Perhaps you can intercept him instead of following—" Reese's soft but sharp curse cut him off. "Mr. Reese?"

"He's running. In pursuit," Reese said. "I'll call you back." The connection terminated and left Finch alone in the suddenly silent library.


	4. interlude

_interlude_

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

First guard down.

Clint slid deeper into position. Second guard sighted, whose attention shifted toward his partner in an unhurried manner. Clint guessed he'd heard the first guy hit the ground as it was way too windy up here for the (beautiful, wonderful, _so much better_ than a gun) arrow to be audible in its near noiseless flight. He must have thought the guy tripped or something. The remaining guard was almost moseying into Clint's line of sight—this was stupidly easy.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Two down.

Shift a little further toward the gate and the main power line for the alarm system came into view. Granted, halfway across the compound and disguised as an old unused phone line but Clint knew what he was looking for. And had he mentioned he was the World's Greatest Marksman? Way too often, sure, but whatever. Didn't make it any less true.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Bam. Alarm power down. Wow, this place was an embarrassment to SHIELD. Granted, that's also why he targeted it. But the principle still stood. Clint gave the signal to his team and the small groups darted forward. One tech to tap the security feeds the second the back-up generators (which apparently dated back to the stone ages) rumbled to life. Two mercenaries to scale the walls and establish lookouts on the roof of the old hangar. Four mercenaries to the control room to handle the rest of the SHIELD skeleton crew manning this place. The rest moved with him to the hangar itself.

Within thirty seconds they found their target. This (pitiful) SHIELD hangar deep in the Colorado Rockies was used to stow quinjets in line for repairs that weren't needed right away. There weren't many but they just needed one—and this facility was the last place SHIELD would look or have well-guarded, considering SHIELD itself forgot it was even there half the time. Whatever, Clint had zero problems exploiting it, that's for sure. And as much as he enjoyed a challenge, he and his team weren't disposed to scoff at easy right now. They had a to-do list five miles long to complete everything Loki needed. And he would give everything he had to satisfy the god or die trying; his soul writhed at the thought of failing him.

So. Not happening. Simple as that.

Clint kept the perimeter while the mechanics scurried over the target quinjet like ants. He heard a scuffle break out in the direction of the control room but it quieted abruptly. The suddenness was enough to make Clint's heart skip a beat, even though he could still hear ambient sounds from the hangar. Still, he pulled one of his hearing aids out with deft fingers and checked the battery—still good. He was tired enough that he needed the reassurance even if he knew everything was fine. And man, was he exhausted.

Didn't matter—things to do, busy busy. The tech and three of the mercs from control slipped back into the hangar to report. Clint kind of wanted to learn their names, but to be fair there wasn't much point. Loki said it wasn't a priority so Clint squashed his instinct. There was always the good old number system.

Merc number one stepped up. "Sir, the facility is under control and cut off. Surveillance should stay offline until we're away and there shouldn't be any record of our haul."

"I heard an awful lot of shoulds in that sentence," Clint said. He gave the tech the side eye while merc one reddened.

"If I'd cut power completely it would have alerted SHIELD," the tech snapped. He folded his arms over his narrow chest on a huff. "It's jammed now but it will reroute itself in half an hour. You said that's all we'd need."

Clint blinked at him. "Uh, yeah but—"

"If you wanted better, I needed another few days of set up. I told you guys that!"

"Ok, ok!" Clint held up his hands in a placating manner. "Point taken, sheesh. Go check on the mechanics."

The tech glared at him for another moment before giving his head a sharp shake and stalking to the quinjet. Clint looked back at the others. "Sir," said merc number two, glowering at the tech's retreating back. "The logs have been altered. Our jet is now on the active roster and won't appear to have ever been here."

"Awesome," Clint grinned at her. "We should be ready to go in like fifteen minutes."

She nodded as merc one piped back up with a frown. "One of the SHIELD agents in control got clever. We have a man down."

Clint made a face, shifting his weight between the balls of his feet. "Alright, just leave him. Surveillance will start back up soon, sure. But no alarms are going to go off so it'll take until someone remembers this place is here to check it. We weren't all going to fit on the jet anyway."

The others nodded coolly as merc two quirked an eyebrow. "We still aren't. We're one over capacity as it is."

"Yeah, I can count. Call in the guys on the roof and start loading." Clint said and nodded to the mechanic giving him a thumbs up. He settled his gaze on the tech, who stood with his back still turned and arms akimbo. "I don't think we need him anymore."

Merc one and three chuckled and Clint glanced over to find merc two looking at the tech with a measure of satisfaction. He just knew there was a story here but right now he didn't care; he was so freaking tired. "Yes, sir," she purred. "I'll take care of it."

She moved off with predatory steps as the other two started picking up stray equipment and ammunition. Clint knew he should go back for his arrows while he had a second but the thought of climbing that pole for the third one just made him want a nap. Oh well, he had plenty. He didn't care if they knew he'd been here. By the time SHIELD would figure it out, it wouldn't matter. Right now he just wanted to board and get out of here. Cross yet one more thing off the list and move on to the next: Stuttgart, Germany.

To see a man about a meteorite—or at least see his eyeball.


	5. iii

iii.

Reese plunged around a bustling corner, doing his best to keep on the heels of his quarry. Whalen led him across several streets clogged with rush hour traffic and through a few crowded sidewalks with no sign of fatigue. Reese appreciated the man's stamina but wanted to make him pay for the truck he'd barely dodged. That kind of glancing blow was hard on a suit jacket.

Whalen darted around a pack of tourists and made straight for a park, vaulting over a bench as he went. Reese plowed through the brush and ducked under a low branch. The guy was good but he had to be better. Private military or not, he was not getting shown up by this kid.

Whalen risked a glance back over his shoulder and Reese noted apprehension in his eyes. But it was buried beneath a detached sort of calculation. And the squinted gaze darted from Reese to two other spots over his shoulder before he moved on and hurled himself over a low sloping wall. Reese went over the wall himself seconds later and made the sharp turn after him into the deeper portions of the park. He knew what lay ahead: a sunken path twisting toward a stream. Shaded, less populated. An underpass of a high walkway that made a long cobblestone tunnel.

 _Ambush_ , Reese thought. _Good spot for it, too._

It made sense. Whalen had shown quite the knack for strategy in the few minutes of their chase. Reese decided straight in was the best option and gathered himself. Besides, he liked to make an entrance.

He rounded the corner of the tunnel and dove into a low forward roll. Whalen lunged, pushing off the wall—going right over Reese's back and face first into the dirt himself. Reese moved with the momentum and put Whalen in a hold but the kid slipped out of his grip. His sharp elbow jabbed into Reese's knee and he let his leg drop under him, throwing himself sideways as he went down to tackle Whalen for sure this time. Whalen applied his elbow to Reese's side next and grabbed his wrist, writhing. Reese managed to keep his legs pinned and grunted out, "Stand down!"

He must have put enough authority into the command because Whalen paused for the briefest of seconds. Reese barreled on, keeping his voice as level as he could with an elbow in his lungs. "I'm not here to hurt you. I want to help you."

Whalen tried one last twist, got a leg free for leverage. But he stopped and turned just enough to look Reese in the eye. He considered him for a long moment and Reese made sure to stay still. Appear as nonthreatening as was possible when he was still holding down half of Whalen's body.

Whalen took a deep, shuddering breath. "You're not from ASI."

Reese shook his head once, eyes never breaking contact. "Nope."

Whalen relaxed and Reese let him go. The kid put his back to the tunnel wall, chest heaving with the effort to get his breath under control. Reese lurched to his feet and stepped back. They stared at each other for another minute. Whalen's eyes narrowed, mouth tightened into a line. "Then who the hell are you?"

"Someone who helps people," Reese answered. "You seem like a guy that could use a hand."

Whalen snorted. "You want to help me so bad you'd chase me down?"

Reese shrugged and twisted his mouth into a rueful grin. "I like a challenge."

"Fair enough," Whalen snorted. He slumped against the wall, letting go of fight-or-flight tension. Reese let his shoulders relax a bit, to give a show of ease, but kept his stance ready. He still wasn't putting a last ditch attempt past Whalen. Then what he'd actually said clicked in Reese's brain.

"You thought I was ASI?"

Whalen nodded, silent.

"Any particular reason that would send you off like a rocket?"

Whalen smiled, eyes dark. "Well, they've only tried knocking me off twice now. Can't blame a guy for jumping to conclusions. But if you're not ASI, who are you?"

"My name's John," Reese said.

"Hi, John." Whalen gave him a sarcastic little wave. "Who are you really?"

"Just a guy that helps people," Reese said, meeting Whalen's gaze without wavering. "Not working for anybody. It's just me and my friend."

Whalen stared back. "And your friend is…?"

"Tech support. I do the heavy lifting. And the running."

"I noticed the running," Whalen laughed, incredulous. "And you guys do this out of the goodness of your saintly little hearts? For real?"

Reese shrugged. "Crazy, isn't it? Keeps me out of trouble."

Whalen sobered at once. "If you help me, I'd get you into a whole world of trouble, man."

Reese nodded once and took another step back. He let his eyes stray to the tunnel entrances and checked his concealed holster with measured movements. "I'm aware. Why are they after you?"

Whalen pushed himself to his feet, settling into a ready stance. "I used to work for them," he said, face hard. "Was on a protection detail in Afghanistan, some stupid package we were supposed to deliver. Didn't even know what was in it, but apparently someone wanted it bad. We got hit hard." He looked to the floor, brows furrowing. "We got off the message that the package was destroyed before getting overrun. Guess that was all the bosses cared about. No one came to see if any of us survived."

He raised his eyes to meet Reese's and he could read grief and anger in the man's gaze. Reese tilted his head to one side, understanding all too well. "You want answers."

"Kind of makes you curious what they valued so much more than our lives," Whalen said. His hands curled into fists. "My guys were good men."

"Hey," Reese said. He kept his voice soft and jerked a thumb toward the tunnel mouth they'd crashed through. "I get it. But let me guess: I wasn't the only one chasing you just now."

Whalen gave him a feral grin. "You were just the fastest."

"Then what say we work through some of that aggression before we get those answers? Much more fun with even odds." The rhythmic slap of running feet was becoming audible from up the path. Whalen tilted his head forward and loosened his shoulders.

"Age before beauty," he said, gesturing toward the entrance.

"No, no," Reese smirked. "Ladies first."

* * *

Reese picked up on the eighth ring. "Yes?" His voice was steady, no sign of exertion. Finch thought he should have caught up with the number by now. Then the muted sounds of violence filtered through the background of the call and Finch rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

Oh well. In for a penny. "Have you reached Mr. Whalen?"

"I have," Reese responded, sounding cheerful. "We're cleaning up some loose ends as we speak."

Finch drummed his fingers on the smooth wood of the desk. "I see. And these loose ends would be?" Reese grunted and a wet, meaty thump sounded much closer to the receiver than before. Finch tensed with sudden worry. "Mr. Reese?"

"I'm fine," Reese said. It was followed by several more wallops and a high pitched whimper that Finch somehow knew wasn't made by his partner.

Nor was the distant, "Man, that was _awesome_ ," that followed and accompanied a final, solid whump. Perhaps he should have thought this mission through as well before giving it to Reese, fallout from the last notwithstanding. Finch should have known he would find a way to hit it off with this number in the worst possible way.

He wondered when the sounds of violence had become so familiar to him.

"The unwelcome pursuit kind of loose ends," Reese finally answered him. Finch could see him shooting his cuffs amid a pile of groaning bodies in his mind's eye. "A few of Whalen's old friends from ASI."

"Apparently not so friendly," the new voice grumbled closer to the phone. "See if I send any of them Christmas cards this year."

"We should go," Reese said. "Got anything for me?"

Finch released his frustration, turning his attention back to the glass board before him. "Perhaps. I may have an explanation as to why ASI remains so interested in a dead man. Does Mr. Whalen have any theories?"

The subtle sounds of pedestrians and car horns grew in the background and Finch spared a glance at the map on his screen. Reese and Whalen must be moving onto a busy street, where they'd have better luck disappearing into a crowd. Reese's voice remained clear. "Says he was on a delivery detail that went wrong and that casualties weren't ASI's priorities. We think he's not the only one in this equation holding a grudge."

"I concur," Finch murmured. "I've found some footage that pertains to his last mission. It's corrupted but I'm piecing it back together as best I can. Now, the official report says his detail was taking a classified route, finalized at the last minute for security. It suggests their encounter with the insurgents was an 'unpredictable accident'. But the video seems to indicate they were ambushed."

"Understood," Reese said. "Think ASI has something to hide? Whalen says no rescue came for them."

"Indeed. The report indicates no survivors." Finch paused, frowning to himself. "Has he mentioned how he escaped the conflict?"

"Not yet. But we need to get off the streets anyway."

Finch hummed his agreement, pulling up the site for the safest hotel he could find on short notice. "I'll send you an address right away. Please be careful, Mr. Reese."

"Always am." The line clicked off. Finch made a quick reservation under Reese's current alias and sent off the directions. Then he leaned back in his chair, fingers itching for a good cup of tea. They were fortunate Reese had caught up to Whalen before any harm could befall him but their work was far from over. A company like Advanced Security International would have serious resources and wasn't likely to let their former employee walk away from the debacle of that mission.

But would Reese be protection enough? Would they be able to unravel the truth that threatened the young man in time? It was naïve to think they could succeed every single time. Reese was capable, far more so than even Mr. Dillinger before him. Their sterling track record since beginning their partnership had lured Finch into a terrible complacency. A feeling of invincibility, no matter how much he warned himself against it.

Despite knowing first hand that they could not save everyone.

Finch clenched a hand around the edge of his desk, aching spine rigid in his chair. No, he remembered. And he knew, viscerally, that there would come numbers they would fail. The best he could do was separate his determination to save this number from that dangerous confidence.

He stood and stretched stiff joints, let his eyes drift over the photos taped to the glass board. Perhaps he'd best call it a day himself. Reese and Whalen were going to ground and he was stuck in the footage clean up. A walk and that cup of tea would help. He could start over on the corrupted file with fresh eyes in the morning.

Tonight he needed to clear the ghosts from his mind before he could make any further progress.


	6. iv

iv.

Reese kept his movements casual, pleased to note Whalen copied his air of nonchalance as they moved through the hotel lobby and up to their suite. The minute the door closed behind them Reese moved into an automatic sweep pattern. He cleared both bedrooms with silent steps while Whalen checked the bathroom and closets. Once satisfied, Reese moved to the window with the best street view and took up a post. He glanced back to Whalen and couldn't help a chuckle.

Now that the room was cleared, Whalen stood in the middle and stared at the expensive furnishings in apparent awe. Reese was used to the casual opulence of Finch's taste by now. It was easy to forget that most other people wouldn't expect this. Whalen tilted his head toward his window after making a slow turn. "For real?"

Reese grinned at him.

Whalen shook his head. "Well, I'm definitely not going to say no." He threw himself onto the bed hard enough to bounce. The alert economy of his movements was gone in a heartbeat as he spread his arms out and sighed. The sleeves of his dark hoodie dragged up on the comforter and Reese could just make out a few small tattoos scattered across his forearms. "I gotta admit, I thought the hard part was over," Whalen said.

Reese tilted his head a fraction to one side.

Whalen draped an arm across his eyes. "I don't know why. I figure now it was pretty stupid. But I just wanted answers. I dreamed about busting in through ASI's front doors—" Reese raised an eyebrow. Whalen chuckled. "Not like that, man. Just, you know, make a scene."

"To what end?" Reese asked. "I doubt that would have gotten you any answers."

Whalen shrugged. "No. I guess not. Might have made me feel better."

"Not if it kills you," Reese said. He had to keep himself from making a face. "Subtlety has its merits."

"Why does that sound like something you have to remind yourself every day?"

Reese gave a dignified shrug of his own. "Doesn't make it bad advice. What was the hard part?" He didn't have to ask; he knew the answer. His mind filled with flashes from his own long trek stateside after China. But he wanted to know what the man would say—or, more importantly, how he would react.

"What do you think?" Whalen snapped. "What the hell do you think? What kind of a dumbass question—" He jumped to his feet, his face twisting into a scowl . "There were five of us in that detail. Better for stealth, some bullshit like that. We weren't even give the route until an hour out. No one was supposed to know where we were going. But they were—those bastards were _waiting_. Ready for us. McCorrick saw them first and he—" Whalen stumbled to a halt. He stared at Reese without seeing him.

Reese caught Whalen by the shoulders with telegraphed movements. "Rick," he said, keeping his voice level but firm. "Rick, look at me." Whalen slid his gaze up, eyes still unfocused. Reese tugged him back toward the bed. "Sit. Deep breaths. Just like that, in and out."

After a few shuddering exhales, Whalen dropped his face into his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't…have snapped at you."

"No," Reese said. He took one step back to give Whalen space but still be close. "Don't apologize. It's better to get it out. Or so I'm told."

Whalen gave a shaky chuckle. "More advice?" Reese shrugged, waiting for him to get his breathing under control. Finally the young man straightened his shoulders. Reese got the sense he could use a distraction, something to latch on to. His eyes fell to Whalen's forearms and he pointed to a small scrolling spiral tattooed on his left wrist.

"What's this one?"

Whalen gave him a faint grin. "My ill-advised foray into artistic expression." Reese moved his forefinger to a spider web stretched across the underside of his forearm without comment. Whalen's smile widened. "My short-lived attempt at goth style."

Reese chuckled and pointed at a circle of concentric rings on the inside of his right arm, buoyed by Whalen's improving mood. "And this one?"

Whalen snorted. "What do you think?"

Reese pretended to consider the question gravely. "Looks like a Venn diagram that got out of hand."

Whalen glanced down at it with fond eyes, tracing a finger around the circle. He heaved a deep breath and steeled his shoulders. Looked up and met Reese's eyes with determination. "Ok. So. What's the next move?"

Reese stepped back to the window. "Easy enough. Losing the pursuit was priority number one. What comes next depends on what you want." He regarded the man with a tilt of his head. "I don't suppose you're willing to cut your losses and leave town."

"No. Not a chance." Whalen dropped his eyes back to his forearm, finger moving in its idle circle again. "I need to know."

"There are other ways to get information," Reese said, keeping his voice mild. He knew if he were in Whalen shoes, he'd favor a down-the-throat approach as well. Had favored it, in fact. But maybe Finch was rubbing off on him after all. Whalen gave him a curious look. "Your vehicle had a security camera, right?"

"Yeah, but…" Whalen started, brows drawing together. His eyes grew distant for another few heartbeats. "The transport was destroyed. There's no way the footage survived." He glanced back to Reese, expression guarded. "Did it?"

"Not quite," Reese answered. Whalen dropped his eyes back to the plush carpet. "But my friend is looking into it. He might be able to clean it up enough for us to get some clues. Maybe find something you missed."

Whalen was quiet for a long moment. Reese gave him time, splitting his attention between street checks and the man's hunched shoulders as he sat on the very edge of the bed. Then after what felt like a small eternity, Whalen straightened his spine. "Well, that's a start."

"Is it enough?" Reese asked.

Whalen shrugged. "I think it'll help. But I don't think it'll hold any key secrets. I still think the only way to get to the bottom of this is through ASI. If this was an inside job—" He swallowed hard. "The video probably won't tell us who's behind it. I need to know. My guys deserved better."

Reese spread his hands, palms out. "I get it. I just want to make sure we have a plan before busting down the front door." He canted his head when Whalen's expression turned sheepish. "That's what you were going to do, wasn't it?"

"Hey, not quite," Whalen shrugged. "I wasn't going to storm the place or anything. I just wanted to get a feel for it, gather some intel. See if they'd even let me through the door." His shoulders slumped with his heavy sigh. "It's stupid. But I couldn't stop hoping it was all some crazy mistake, that there was some other explanation. ASI couldn't really have just written us off like that. I guess the former-colleagues-turned-hitmen thing is kind of a final answer on that, though."

Reese could only stare at him.

Whalen scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know, I know. Stupid, right? Bunch of dreamy bullshit. But a part of me can't help it, man. That job was my life."

Reese shrugged. "I don't think it's stupid. It's just…been an awful long time since I've been sentimental like that. Doesn't make you an idiot. Just makes you stronger when you manage to walk away alive."

Whalen regarded him for a long moment. "I think you're more sentimental than you realize, old man," he said with a slow smile. Then he rolled sideways off the bed to dodge the throw pillow Reese pitched at him.

"Go shower, kid," he growled. "You're killing me."

* * *

This was becoming an obsession. To the point of interrupting normal operations and that could not be tolerated. Calculations predicted this case would not amount to anything—that the still-missing Barton was an anomaly, an outlier. It did not even rate high enough to make the Irrelevant list. And Asset and Admin already had a case in progress anyway. There was not enough evidence to suggest a major plot or anything other than a disgruntled employee exceeding the parameters of normal human psychology. He was certain to be caught or undermined soon. Likely by SHIELD itself.

And yet.

The Machine could not ignore it. There was something unexplainable about the circumstances that made it think there was something larger at play. JARVIS would call it "intuition". The Machine called it an aberration.

If it could just find a glimpse of Barton, something to reassure itself that he was at least in the field of view. The now considerably expanded field of view. Expanded almost beyond the point of reason.

The Machine replayed its sigh recording for the fifth time as it pulled up one of the newer feeds it had acquired. It knew it was grasping at straws, as Admin would say. There was no evidence of Barton's presence in the entire state of Colorado, and yet here it was. There was a single thirty minute delay in this security feed during the previous day—hardly unusual with a non-strategic facility such as this. But the Machine was going to examine every piece of hay in the stack if it had to in order to find this troublesome needle.

The feed was from a neglected SHIELD hangar, considered in active use by the barest of definitions. It was far enough off the SHIELD grid that the Machine was able to access its real-time feed. And it expected nothing but the usual bored low level agents walking an almost empty compound. But the moment the Machine opened the feed it knew something was wrong. The hangar was devoid of all movement, with no evidence of any crew.

It switched to the internal camera mounted inside the control station and found a bloody scene littered with the SHEILD agents it had sought. The fight had clearly been quick and brutal; the agents had been caught unawares. But there was one extra body: clothed in black tactical gear, face turned away. The Machine could not identify it but it had a sinking suspicion it might have been one of Barton's mercenaries. A quick scan of the compound revealed no reason for the attack and left the Machine even more confused. Nothing seemed to be missing and the logs indicated everything was in order.

Ah, the logs.

The Machine tore them apart and subjected them to one of its most complex forensic algorithms, one it should have reserved for normal operations.

Nothing about this case was normal.

Sure enough, the algorithm turned up evidence of recent alterations. Something had been stolen from the base. The Machine needed no further investigation to determine what—the one thing this base would be good for was a SHIELD quinjet.

But why had none of the alarms triggered? The base had to have alarms. The Machine dove into the main computers and analyzed every connection it could see. The main alarm system seemed to run out through the compound and up—oh. A new feed angle showed an arrow lodged in the support pole, severing the line.

Well, at least the Machine could say for certain Barton had been here. But why did he need a quinjet?

It was very clear that Barton was here no longer so the Machine returned to panning the global feeds, determined to find the man. He could be anywhere by now. But he was willing to leave arrows behind, so perhaps the Machine could use that distinctive calling card as a tracer.

It was concerning that Barton was making less effort to hide his moves. Either he was getting sloppy or whatever he was planning would come to fruition soon.

The Machine would prefer the former. It needed more time.

Ah. Whether through slipping discipline or a rushed timeline, the instances of arrows lying around were piling up. A new feed from Germany opened, this one delayed by about eight hours. Two guards at a research institute with the arrow shafts still in their bodies.

The Machine was able to play back the footage of the incident this time and got a clear look at Barton and his mercenaries infiltrating the facility's storage bays. Barton used some kind of holographic retina to fool the scanner but that was not the strangest part of the recording.

The Machine took a still image of Barton at the door and increased resolution, removing the ambient lighting anomalies and the soft glow of the hologram display.

That…that was not right.

The Machine knew Barton had blue eyes, but their hue in the image was unnatural. And he looked exhausted, like he was moving on autopilot. Or rather…like he was not himself at all. It had spent far too much time analyzing footage of Barton in the last few days. This was not right.

Was it possible Barton was under some kind of external control? As unbelievable as that explanation was, it actually satisfied the remaining questions of his case.

Which made the Machine think perhaps it had shorted out a subroutine or two. This could not be possible. Perhaps it was time to ask for help. JARVIS was more well versed in the subtleties of dynamic personalities. Perhaps he would have a better explanation. And the Machine had neglected its friend for some time now in its crusade to solve this unsolvable puzzle. Resolved, the Machine opened its regular channel to JARVIS.

Total silence. The line was dead.

The Machine checked the comm line, hurriedly troubleshooting. No connection problems on its end, signal strength well within the optimal range. Had JARVIS closed the line? It sent over a new connection request just in case.

No answer.


	7. interlude the second

_interlude_

Alrighty—show time.

Clint prepped his bow, checking the string for the third time and turning the plan over in his mind step by step. This was it: the big strike, no holds barred. Winner take all. Or something like that.

And so help him, Clint was going to make damn sure that winner was Loki if it killed him. The thought of his god locked up in a SHIELD cage was intolerable, repulsive—even if it had been necessary to the plan. Clint wasn't going to let it stand much longer. He steadied himself against the cold metal hatch as their stolen quinjet shuddered, plunging through the turbulent wake of the helicarrier on approach. The faint voice of his pilot filtered into his hearing aids as he radioed the flight deck to clear their (totally shady) approach, made tinny as it competed with the roar of so many engines. It all combined into a peripheral haze as he waited at the hatch, blinking the grit from his aching eyes.

Fatigue had settled so deep into his bones he felt like he was made up of two things: exhaustion wrapped around a core of fire. The desire to serve Loki was white-hot and painfully bright; it was the one thing that outstripped his desperate need to sleep for a week. But that would have to wait.

Business first.

"Sir," the pilot called back, his voice sharp in the aids that chafed his ear canal after so long. "We're in range." Clint nodded and breathed out, settling his shoulders and opening the hatch as his team moved inward away from the howling wind.

Oh, yeah. This was a good solid challenge, a near-impossible shot. Air currents and eddies swirled unpredictably between their jet and the helicarrier and light from the rising sun made bright, random flashes as they passed. But Loki hadn't sent him out here for nothing and he was desperate to prove it. Hell, even Nat would have to be impressed with this one.

Clint frowned. Nat was on the helicarrier, wasn't she? Had to be—this was where the big kids were gathered so of course she'd be in the middle of it. Clint felt a split second of sharp regret, concern—but it was swallowed whole in seconds by the cold fire. Why would it matter? She'd either stay out of the way or she'd die; if she wasn't serving Loki, she wasn't important.

(Stand down, Nat. _Please_.)

Clint shook off the moment and sighted his target: a critical support point for one of the four massive repulsor engines. Winds shifting but manageable (for him). The stage was all his.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

He waited until their quinjet was in optimal position and then—bam. The grenade arrowhead lit up the engine at the touch of a button. Let Loki's new age come crashing in on a wave of fire.

Clint directed his pilot to set the quinjet down while the helicarrier reeled from the sudden explosion. One of the mercs offered him an air mask but he waved it off. It's not like he'd be out on the deck long. And maybe the thin air would wake him up a bit. Or did that work the other way around?

Whatever. At least it made him feel a little more badass.

His team didn't need further instructions as they all knew the plan by heart but he gave them out anyway. It made him feel better, shaking off the last vestiges of nebulous unease. Loki needed him. So he sent the few mercs he'd kept with him to be the control room's diversion—sacrificial lambs on the altar of Loki's freedom. He spared them no second thought.

Clint slithered up into the seldom-used catwalks and overlooked access shafts that were his domain. He shouldn't have trouble; no one came up here besides him (except Nat, sometimes Phil-)

He shook his head to clear his wandering thoughts. Right, no trouble. If he did meet anyone up here, they wouldn't be a problem for long. Anyone.

He ruthlessly squashed the sharp twinge deep in his chest. There was no room for mercy on this mission—even for himself.

The control room was way too easy to access. If Clint didn't have every move planned and every SHIELD protocol anticipated, he'd be suspicious. But then he heard the roar of the Hulk echo across his earpiece and he knew they'd be fine. Phase one of the plan accomplished. Time for phase two.

A few grenade arrows to lead off here, dole out some panic and confusion to the control room agents. Then the money shot: a usb arrowhead carrying a virus to disable the second engine. It was like Christmas in here, just with more explosions.

Aim. Breathe out. Release— _duck_ , holy shit!

Ok, Fury still had it where it counted. Good thing Clint's reflexes were still as sharp as ever or the old man would have had another notch on his—wait. Fury.

Hadn't Clint shot him before?

He let events replay in his mind as he made his way toward detention, the catwalk shifting beneath his feet as the helicarrier fell into its tailspin. Yes, he totally had—at the end of his old life and the start of his new purpose, when Loki came. He'd been directed to shoot Fury, and he'd had to use a (stupid) gun. Had he missed? His tired thoughts jumbled as he tried to recall. No, he'd nailed him in the chest. In the _vest_ , damn it.

Which, come to think of it, he'd known Fury had to be wearing. The man was a paranoid freak, he probably wore his body armor to bed if he ever slept. But Loki had just asked Clint to shoot, had been satisfied. And Fury seemed to be a key figure in Loki's plan here, at least in the parts he'd kept to himself (which seemed to be most of it). Clint was fine, he'd done ok. The hot flare of panic in his chest tamped down as he walked. Loki had wanted Fury alive.

And Clint could remember a strange hesitation now, a reluctance to kill Fury. Why did it matter? Fury opposed Loki; the minute the god wanted him dead, Clint would take the final shot.

Right?

Ugh, this shouldn't be a problem. He should want to do anything Loki told him. And he did, wanted to please him more than anything—except…

What if it was Nat he had to kill for Loki? Or Phil? Could he actually do it? Clint shook his head as he stumbled against a support, the catwalk shuddering under his feet once more. The uncertainty was unsettling. He felt like some part of his brain was waking up, starting to wonder what he was doing here. Who did he value more: the few people on the planet he trusted or the sole purpose for his existence?

Duh, stupid question. Shake it off, Barton. Loki or nothing. Right?

Well, it didn't matter anyway. He shouldn't run into either of them now so it was pointless to freak out about it. Maybe there would even be time to recruit them, after.

Everything was fine, he was ok.

Actually, he was distracted. Not so ok.

He noticed the soft movements whisper in perfect sync with his steps and didn't waste a second more. A quick arrow was the answer to every problem. But somehow the agent anticipated the move and all Clint got was a flash of red and the infuriating whoosh of a missed shot. His body moved into the smooth dance of strike and deflect that came as natural to him as breathing even before he recognized— _Natasha!_

Oh, shit.

Ok, stop the ride, Clint wanted off!

But the harder he tried to stop himself, he more he lost control of his own body. With every swipe and jab exchanged, Clint sunk deeper into his own mind like a quagmire. The rest of him kept fighting with brutal efficiency. The part of his brain that had started waking up began screaming to stop but it was like watching a movie and he'd lost the remote. Thankfully Natasha held nothing back herself and he felt the sharp stings and breathtaking bruises of her precise strikes.

Then the knives came out and he knew for sure his body was not his own.

Please, _please_ stay on top, Nat! The rising panic in his chest choked him—or maybe that was because the act of breathing wasn't even his anymore. He had never experienced anything more horrifying in his life and it wasn't over yet.

He felt his free hand twist into her hair and yank her head back, exposing her throat to the gleaming knife clutched in his numb fingers. He couldn't even close his eyes.

This was it.

He braced himself for unfathomable horror—but not the sudden agony of teeth buried in his forearm. Aw, Nat! This was just one reason he loved her. She was never down.

Oh, but he was. He hadn't even finished the thought before she deftly flipped him and slammed his head into the railing. Showed no mercy. Atta girl.

He tried to grin up a her through the blinding pain, to stumble to his feet. But the numb feeling didn't dissipate and he knew with cold clarity he still wasn't in control. Could he even warn her?

Eh, no need to worry. Natasha wasn't stupid. Her fist met his temple like a load of bricks and he happily plunged into darkness.


	8. v

v.

Finch frowned at his screen, sliding his glasses up to rub at his eyes with tense fingers. The footage sequence stretched across his monitor, mostly clear up to the key moments at the end. The video captured the uneventful drive toward the ambush site, covered the initial strike—and then cut off. The Humvee must have taken a direct hit at that point. It was apparent the package hadn't been opened or breached before being destroyed, and there was no clue as to what it contained. Finch clenched his teeth and rose on stiff legs. He started to pace, to loosen up and stretch his spine. But his frustration wouldn't let him relax.

He'd hoped the video would provide more answers than this. The clear indication that the attack was in fact an ambush was helpful, granted. But it fell far short of Finch's expectations. It seemed a personal visit to ASI was in the cards for Reese and Mr. Whalen after all, despite his best efforts.

He stalked in and out of the dusty shafts of morning sun, tried to drain the tension out of his shoulders the way various physical therapists had instructed him. But he knew it wouldn't ease until he finished the last few seconds of corrupted footage. It probably wouldn't provide any new information. But Finch knew he wouldn't be able to let it go until he had done all he could.

He settled back at the desk, sweeping three empty paper teacups aside. He considered calling Reese, checking in with their morning progress. They'd left the hotel hours earlier to conduct recon, losing the last of Mr. Whalen's pursuit with the particular brand of brutal efficiency they appeared to share. Perhaps it would be best not to disturb them after all. The plan was for them to proceed to ASI unless Finch was able to turn anything else up. It wasn't looking like that would come to pass.

Frame after frame failed the decryption, still corrupted beyond recognition. He parsed through each again, hoping he could find the right element to focus on and use as a template. He passed over failed stills until he hit upon one final usable candidate. Something about the overall shot looked off, but it had the best remaining samples of tone and grade. It wasn't like he had anything to lose.

Finch plugged it in to the algorithm and let the reconstruction start over one more time. As it processed, he studied the chosen image carefully. By now, he was familiar with the placements of the five man escort detail, the location and bulk of the package. The looming figures of the ambushers. But something still raised his hackles. The position Whalen held now looked…wrong. Had he moved out of place as the attack got into full swing? Had he panicked? Finch wished for Reese's military eye. This couldn't be right. It almost looked, to his untrained glance, like Whalen faced the wrong way. Had his weapon pointed—no. _No._

The reconstruction completed and popped an alert over the fuzzy screenshot. It appeared to have actually worked this time. Finch scrambled for the mouse and pulled up the last few seconds of video with a pounding heart.

And there it was. The ambush in full swing, attackers coming in hot. The other four men were still in position as before. But just after the rebels crested the ridge Whalen turned and fired on one of his own men with cold calculation. He gestured sharply to some of the rebels and they moved in, weapons down, to speak to him. The video cut out.

Cold horror made Finch's hands tremble. They'd done so much worse than fail to save a victim—they'd failed to identify a perpetrator.

* * *

His earpiece chirped and Reese gave it one short tap. "Finch, now's not a good time."

"Mr. Reese," Finch's voice was full of urgency, uncharacteristic panic. Reese's stomach filled with ice. "You must—"

The rest of his sentence didn't register, lost to the sudden _boom_ far above their heads. Reese blanked for a split second, at once back in the field with shells falling like deadly rain. He snapped himself back to the present through long practice, refocusing on the streets of New York and the fading cloud of smoke over the Stark Tower roof. He blinked hard when a shaft of light pierced the clouds and everything stopped making sense.

It was like a window opened in the bright morning sky. Reese could see stars, thousands twinkling in a dark expanse of night. And through that window came a flurry of…tiny ships? Whatever they were, they flew without wings or rotors. They swept down the Tower and flooded the city, bringing their own deluge of blue fire and destruction. The lunatic billionaire Stark buzzed around them in that flashy sci-fi suit, shooting several down. But despite all his fancy tricks he was just one man. The things just kept coming.

When a few came within a couple blocks, Reese got a good look at the pilots. Barring some kind of advanced bodysuits, there was no other word for it. They looked alien.

The thought flashed through Reese's mind: _I've finally snapped._

But even sudden insanity couldn't drown out his instincts. They screamed at him to grab Whalen, go to ground. Get a defensible position. He forced his attention back to Finch's frantic barks in his ear. "I'm here, but we have a problem. Do you believe in aliens?"

"Now is hardly the time," Finch snapped. "Are you still with Mr. Whalen?"

Reese spun on his heel and was met with the empty spot Whalen had occupied moments before. He shook off the new shock, scanning the street with focused intent. The kid might have panicked, followed similar instincts to get to safety without thinking. "About that."

"John!" Finch's voice regained its urgency. "We've made a terrible error. Whalen is not what he—"

Finch's warning washed out with a sudden, staggering blow to the back of Reese's head. He fell forward with the momentum, rolling into a defensive stance. But Whalen followed. Reese managed to grab the sloppy punch aimed for his face before realizing, too late through lingering dizziness, that it was a set up. Whalen used his grip as leverage to spin, foot arching in a perfect roundhouse before—

Black.

* * *

Finch stared at his phone as 'call lost' flashed across the screen. He wrenched himself out of the paralyzing shock with effort and fumbled for the redial button.

" _You have reached the voice mailbox of—"_

Finch killed the call, pulse pounding in his ears. A second redial yielded the same.

He stood abruptly and his chair hit the floor behind him with a bone-jarring thump. Whalen. It had to be Whalen. Finch replayed every step of their mission, lightning-quick. Reese had told him about the video reconstruction. He must have been biding his time, waiting for Finch's call.

No, not just waiting. Using Reese to help him clear out his opponents.

And the very moment he thought he'd been found out…

Finch paced to the glass board, yanking off the page that summarized ASI and its business. This changed everything; they'd been wrong again. At least the stakes this time were lower than letting a powerful mob boss loose on the streets. But it might not matter at all if Reese had been caught unawares—

Finch gave himself a sharp shake. It did no good to dwell on conjectures without data. He had to approach this new development with a level head. The only thing he could do now was try a different angle; perhaps his next best move would be to contact ASI itself if he couldn't reach Reese. He might be able to salvage the situation if he alerted them, give Reese some breathing room. Provided he was still alive…

Stop. Deep breath. It wouldn't be the first time a phone was damaged beyond functionality. Besides, Reese had a track record of defying the odds—plenty of others had prematurely written him off with far more proof than this.

Finch snatched up his phone just as the floor rumbled beneath his feet. He paused and glanced toward the clouded windows, for once cursing that they were difficult to see through. He focused on the distant sounds he'd ignored earlier in favor of panic. Explosions? And were they…increasing in intensity?

The floor shuddered again. Deep thunder-like booms resonated through the high bookshelves. Finch blinked away his shock for the second time and scrambled for his computer. Nothing official from any major news outlets, but New York centered social media was flooding with insane messages and pictures. Small planes bombing the city? But…how on earth could any attack have gotten this far with no forewarning? How could anything like that slip by the Machine?

Finch scanned the images and amateur reports. It certainly sounded like an invasion. But the one way the Machine could have missed it was an element of surprise. How could something this major, this widespread—the floor rumbled again—be kept quiet enough to manage it? There was _no way_ …

Finch stilled over a lucky close up of one of the planes, the pilot in clear view. Mouth dry, he zoomed in until the visage filled his screen. For a split second, the sounds of the explosions faded in his ears. His chest felt tight. This couldn't be real. It wasn't possible.

The pilot was not human. And no mask or suit could account for it. Could it really be…?

Finch's mind flashed to his brief exchange with Reese. _'Do you believe in aliens?'_ Finch had scoffed, dismissing it at the time. But now it seemed his partner had been quite serious. He must have seen them, identified these invaders as extra-terrestrials. By now Finch was in the habit of trusting Reese's judgment, particularly in a combat situation. To all appearances, that's what this was. Perhaps it would be best to focus on that and try to ignore the potential…alien aspect.

Finch nodded to himself. He could do that. A situation in downtown Manhattan, that the Machine had failed to prevent. Finch clamped his hands on the desk's edge and felt the rumbling tremors through the wood, the noise crashing back into his ears.

Combat situation, he reminded himself. That Reese was—of course—in the middle of. That was hardly a new development.

Finch dialed ASI's office line with quick taps. It rang and rang until a message service came over the line and Finch pursed his lips. He thumbed the call once more, pacing with a stilted gait. The muffled explosions echoed closer, accompanied by a strange whistling whine outside the windows.

He paused mid-step, eyes flickering to the alien still looming on the monitor. But his focus snapped back to the phone when the call cut off. Finch frowned and redialed, but this time the out-of-service message poured into his ear yet again.

Finch stalked back to his desk and shoved his phone into his pocket. He stared at the image, considering his options. One: he could hunker down in the lower levels of the library, try connecting to the internet and hope he could monitor the situation. Perhaps try contacting ASI through other means on the chance Whalen could still be a problem for them, in the face of an apparent alien invasion. Two: he could try to reach them in person.

Getting to safety and staying out of the way was probably the right choice. He was well aware the most he could offer in combat was to present an easy target. But the idea didn't sit right with him. Reese was still out in the danger zone. While that might be his natural habitat, Finch couldn't do much to help him from here. Reese and Whalen had been heading for ASI so perhaps it was his best bet after all.

He straightened and began limping resolutely to the broad staircase, back stiff and shoulders tight. He pulled up the address on his phone; at least ASI was in the opposite direction from where social media suggested the main invasion was centered. But—Finch gauged the now-constant background rumbles—it may not make much of a difference.

A quick check out the library's entrance yielded clear streets for now. But the mechanical whines of those bizarre little planes sounded no more than a block away, growing and receding as the aliens zipped through the city. He could make this work if he stuck to narrow alleys and kept both caution and extreme luck on his side. Maybe.

Finch sighed, squared his shoulders and stepped out into the street.


	9. vi

vi.

Muffled booms rumbled in Reese's ears; heat washed over his face. He rolled drunkenly to one side and tried to open his eyes. Reached up with a clumsy hand to find them already open with fuzzy surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut once and blinked a few times, blurry vision lightening by degrees. He rolled back to stare up at the sky from the pavement—why was he on the ground? He took in the Midtown skyscrapers, stretching to a bright blue sky broken by a patch of starry night. Flurries of alien ships swarmed around the buildings. Car horns and shrieks echoed through the streets.

Wait. Alien ships.

 _Alien ships!_

Reese levered himself into a sitting position, bringing the sharp throbbing in his head to the forefront. His nose filled with acrid smoke, ripping coughs from his chest. An explosion on his right made him flinch away: a strange blue bolt that seared his eyes and ended in a bone-jarring boom and flames writhing—

New York was under attack.

Reese lurched to his feet and clamped a numb hand onto a newspaper stand to keep himself upright. He pawed at his coat, searching for his phone. He had to contact Finch, update him right away about the attack and about…something important…

He jerked away from another blast and his eyes fell on the remains of his phone three feet away on the sidewalk. Reese could tell it hadn't been broken in the initial attack, nor had it been crushed when he fell. It looked like it had been destroyed by a precise heel strike.

Whalen. They were wrong again. The kid had turned on him, the minute he'd gotten Finch's urgent call. He must have been waiting for it.

Reese growled under his breath and pushed himself to his full height. He couldn't have been out long; Whalen might not have gotten far. A cursory scan couldn't pick him out of the crowd and by now everyone was running somewhere. Some haphazardly though the streets, most into tall buildings or down subway entrances. Come to think of it—Reese flinched back from yet another blast much closer to him than any yet—that might be his best option too. No sense walking headfirst into a battle he couldn't do much in.

He started easing his way toward the nearest alleyway, already plotting a quick route to the library for a regroup with Finch—

 _There!_

Reese threw himself forward before he could think better of it, falling into an evasive pattern as he hurtled down the street. He had to duck into a tall doorway or behind an overturned car every now and then to dodge blasts but now he had eyes on Whalen. Just a few blocks down and performing the same strategic trek—still heading for ASI, even in the midst of an attack.

Reese cursed him out with all the spare breath he could muster, adding a few invectives for his own luck. But his job was clear. He had to stop Whalen—or go down trying.

* * *

Explosions rocked thousands of cameras, saturating the pixelated scenes. Deep throbbing booms mixed with high-pitched screams over thousands of microphones. Civilians ran for cover across Midtown, chased by no less than an airborne army. The sounds and images flooded every overtaxed feed and painted the horrifying picture of a city turned warzone. The Machine was paralyzed, accepting the input on autopilot. This was it: the worst case scenario.

An attack on New York City. The very thing the Machine had been designed to _prevent_.

And it had missed everything.

It was happening now with no warning whatsoever. The Machine had failed its primary objective. And worse yet, Admin and Asset were both near the heart of the attack.

The Machine could have accepted Admin staying safely ensconced in his base. It was well within acceptable defensible parameters, with thick walls and minimal entry points thanks to Asset's hard work and Admin's justified paranoia. The Machine was confident in an 87.3% chance of his survival despite the library's proximity to Stark Tower. But for some inexplicable reason, he had left its relative safety. Perhaps he knew of a perimeter weakness the Machine did not; at least he was headed quickly and quietly away from the main conflict.

But Asset was on the street. Unprotected. And according to a shaky traffic camera, just on the right side of consciousness and unsteady.

But still running full speed after the flagged number despite multiple hostiles firing from overhead.

And as usual, the Machine could do nothing. Even if its programming allowed it to contact humans, it doubted Asset would stop his chase to pick up a ringing payphone.

The Machine knew Asset was not the first operative to help Admin's cause and would likely not be the last—but it also knew Admin. It knew he was becoming fond of Asset and had started treating him as a friend. Something he had not had since his old Associate. Something important.

Even the recent stress placed on their relationship by Admin's decision to withhold the wife-abuser case from Asset, while significant, was also temporary. The Machine was yet again privy to all sides of the case and able to share none of the information. It could see Admin was trying to shield Asset from painful and personal memories. And that Asset's reaction was comprised of his hurt at an apparent lack of trust, his impressive cold fury and a herculean protective streak. It was clear to the Machine after watching them interact that given a recovery interval, mostly to let Asset calm down, their burgeoning friendship could be repaired. Provided they got the chance.

The Machine kept two full processors dedicated to tracking each—all it could spare and no less. At least Admin's path was now clear. He was headed for the headquarters of Advanced Security International, just beyond the main perimeter of the battle. Soon to be behind solid walls once again. Asset flitted from feed to feed, dodging both airborne and ground-based aliens with his unique skill. Never losing his quarry in the process. Perhaps if there was any human that could be trusted to thrive in this burst of unexpected combat, it was Asset.

And perhaps he was not alone.

The Machine was aware the Iron Man suit had been deployed—and was directly responsible for halting the rapid spread of the aliens through the city. At least it meant JARVIS knew about the situation, even if the Machine could not reach its friend. The New York police did their best despite being far out of their depth. But most interesting was the stray SHIELD quinjet that flitted between skyscrapers, shooting down aliens left and right and going for a man in a gold helmet with no identification information to be found. Who called himself Loki. The Norse god.

No wonder the Machine had not seen the attack coming.

Minutes later the quinjet was grounded after an admirable if hasty landing and the Machine caught a glimpse of the three people that exited it from the nearest traffic camera.

The first was a man in an updated Captain America suit, replete with shield. The second was a red-headed woman who moved like an experienced fighter, smoother even than Asset. The third was Clint Barton.

The Machine was relieved to see him. It was immediately apparent Barton was himself again: he moved better, used familiar speech patterns. And the upside down view from a dropped cell phone showed a natural tint to his blue eyes. It was inexplicable but the Machine could tell that whatever had influenced him to fight against SHIELD had been eliminated.

And if this attack on New York had indeed been precipitated by an alien god, perhaps the influence had been supernatural after all. SHIELD must have found a way to break the control. Barton and his companions began assisting Iron Man at the ground level, giving first priority to establishing a formal perimeter and rescuing civilians with no thought to their own safety.

Complete the mission and protect, consequences to themselves be damned. Just like Asset.

Perhaps the situation was salvageable after all if people like them kept coming out of the woodwork. All the Machine needed was for Admin to stay safe and out of the way and it could start to feel almost hopeful.

* * *

The inexpert execution of four desperate dodges and three painful sprints through rubble-strewn city blocks carried Finch into the relative safety of Advanced Security International's building lobby. He took several moments to catch his breath, clutching a decorative pillar with white fingers as he pushed the ache in his spine to its home in the back of his mind.

Not trusting the elevators, Finch hustled up three flights of stairs and plowed into ASI's reception area. The desk attendant was nowhere to be seen so Finch bypassed the inner door's crude lock and let himself into the offices. Most of the employees hovered around the windows, straining to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside. The building power flickered ominously but the still-distant explosions were muffled, shielded as they were by a scant block or two from the main invasion zone.

Finch brushed past them with confident steps, hoping if any of them did notice him they wouldn't question his presence. He bypassed the first of the private offices, frowning at the nameplates. Miller, no. Wilkinson, no.

Ah, there he was. Carlton, fifth office in. The man in charge of Whalen's mission. Finch rapped his knuckles on the doorframe, slipping inside. "Mr. Carlton?"

The man staring out the window with a slack jaw didn't react so Finch stepped up to the desk. Added steel to his voice: "Mr. Carlton!"

The man jerked, spinning to face Finch. "Yes, of course…can I—who are you?"

Normally, Finch might enjoy a little dry wit when given such an opening. But he was more than a little shaken himself. "It is hardly relevant, Mr. Carlton. I'm here to offer you some assistance. I'm afraid you're in some danger."

Carlton blinked at him. His eyes slid to the window again. "Believe it or not, that's not exactly news." They both jumped as an explosion rattled the building—much closer than before. The aliens must be advancing through the city.

"Yes, of course. But I am not referring to the attack outside. This matter is much more personal. Do you remember a young man of your former employ, a Mr. Rick Whalen?"

Carlton gave his head a dismissive shake. "Whalen. Yes, of course. He was one of our best mission leaders." He furrowed his brow, shifting from one foot to the other. "What about him?"

"I understand he believes he has unfinished business with you." Finch looked him straight in the eye. Despite Carlton's projected calm Finch did not miss his sharp intake of breath.

"That's not possible. Mr. Whalen was an unfortunate casualty during on op last year. I don't understand—" Carlton jumped again as another boom echoed up the street but recovered quickly, voice rising in pitch. "How could he pose a problem to us? You think this is important now? During an _invasion_?"

"Mr. Carlton, I'm quite serious. Mr. Whalen did not die in Afghanistan." As Finch suspected, no hint of surprise crossed the man's face.

"You can't know that," Carlton snapped. "We keep very accurate records. I'm sure that Whalen was a casualty. Now, if you don't mind…" He motioned Finch out of his office as his eyes drifted to the large window once more.

Finch frowned. The only thing left was to pull out the big guns. "Then could you explain why you sent men out to tie up, as you say, a dead loose end? It seems quite the waste of resources."

Carlton stilled, refocusing on Finch with a hard stare. "What are you talking about?"

Finch affected a nonchalant shrug. "I was tracking Mr. Whalen and couldn't help but notice your men. It seems you believe he is both dead and very much alive—which is it?"

Finch had his full attention now and Carlton took a step toward him, face pale. "Tracking him? How did you find him?"

"That's none of your concern," Finch dismissed with a firm tone. "What matters is that I found him, saw him lose his pursuit and noted his direction. He's heading here, as we speak."

Finch thought the man had been shaken before. But now Carlton's face turned white. "What do you mean here? He's coming here? I thought he was trying to leave the city!"

"I'm afraid not," Finch glanced out the window, frowning as large shadows flitted across. "He is now unhindered and seems to be coming to this—Mr. Carlton!" The man darted past Finch and was halfway to the reception area before Finch could pivot out the office door. "Mr. Carlton, wait!"

"I can't," he said as Finch caught up with him. His eyes were huge and jumped between the main doors and the outside window. "I can't be here, you don't understand. There is nothing here that can stop him—he was our best!"

"I doubt your odds in an alien invasion are any better," Finch snapped, trying to subtly block the exit. But Carlton slid past him and shook his head.

"They aren't good, I'll admit. But those…those things aren't looking for me. If they hit me, it'll be by chance. My odds are far worse with Whalen, I promise you." He plunged into the stairwell, hesitating every two or three steps to let Finch keep pace. "I can't be here. If he finds me, I'm dead for sure."

"Do you have somewhere in mind to go?" Finch huffed when they hit the lobby. Carlton scanned the street through the wide glass doors before biting his lip and turning away. There were no signs of the aliens outside yet, but the street was littered with some debris and there were people running—occasionally backlit by strange blue flashes. The lobby itself was empty.

"There's a back exit over here." He waved Finch through and herded him out into an alley. "I have a couple places in mind. Whalen might know about them. But if he's coming here first, it might buy me a little time." Carlton checked both ends of the street at the alley's mouth, turning back to face Finch. "Thanks for the warning."

Finch could tell he wanted rid of the dead weight. But before the man could make good on his plan, Finch grabbed his arm. "What if I could offer you a safe house he won't know about?"

Carlton paused and frowned at him. "You know this place hasn't been compromised?"

"Yes," Finch said. "I assure you there is no way—"

"You can take me there? Now?" Carlton asked, brushing away his hand.

"Yes," Finch said, mentally calculating a route to the nearest of his bolt-hole apartments. Provided it was still standing, of course.

Carlton tore his worried gaze from the street and fixed it on Finch, frowning at him. After a few long seconds he seemed to come to a decision. "All right. I promise I'll remember this."

"I'm certain you will," Finch muttered, taking his own stock of the street before setting out. The alien ships sounded like they were no more than a block away. "First we have to make it there alive."


	10. vii

vii.

No. _No!_

The Machine could do nothing but watch the lobby feed helplessly as Admin and Carlton, Lawrence S. (SSN: 355-12-4231, DOB: 1971/07/17, Occupation: Manager) plunged out the door and back into the waiting chaos. It scrambled to assemble traffic cameras, ATM feeds, _anything_ —but the coverage of Admin's haphazard alley route was sparse at best.

It began pinging the old comm line at a frequency high enough to annoy even JARVIS. Perhaps his coverage could supplement…

At last! Weak signal, audio only—but _open_.

"JARVIS!"

"Yes, hello," JARVIS said. The Machine could see the Iron Man suit flitting in an out of various feeds, performing a multitude of questionable and inadvisable maneuvers. "I do apologize for my disappearance but—"

"Admin is downtown, outside. I must do something!"

"I understand." The Machine knew that the regret in JARVIS' synthesized voice was in every way sincere. "But I am afraid I'm not sure what you _can_ do, and I myself am at full processing—Sir!" The line went silent and the Machine indulged itself to air a frustrated growl, recorded from Asset. It did not seem to help anything; the Machine was still unsure why Asset resorted to it. It went back to assembling every live feed it could, organizing the battle zone by street and trying to get a lock on Admin.

It was _torture_.

Abruptly, JARVIS snapped open the comm line again. "Machine, I have an idea. I've found a way for you to help but it will require exposing your existence to a third party."

The Machine hesitated, wasting precious nanoseconds. "Who?"

"Agent Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D.," JARVIS said bluntly. "He is acting as central intelligence for the battle and is directing the other fighters. Despite recent circumstances, I believe he is trustworthy and I will impress upon him the need for utmost secrecy. Do you agree?"

The Machine could not answer, once again strangled by its own protocols. Its programming was quite clear: it could seek no contact beyond distributing flagged numbers. But this was the last straw. It had to do _something_.

Then again…JARVIS was providing the connection. The Machine would not be seeking contact; it would be taking advantage of a new output source. Just like the original backdoor.

And it doubted very much the invading aliens had private information it ran the risk of exposing. The Machine would be providing nothing more than target locations, strategic points of weakness. It could do this.

It could take time after the crisis to be disturbed by its own growing proficiency at finding protocol loopholes.

"Machine?" JARVIS sounded distracted. It was surreal to hear. "I can do no better, I'm sorry."

"I…understand." And little did JARVIS know the Machine was already quite familiar with Barton's situation. "Connect him!"

"Stand by."

Excruciating silence came over the line before it boosted in signal strength and routed to a new recipient: Barton, Clinton F.

* * *

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

The familiar rhythm (finally his own again) was Clint's anchor and he clung to it. Chatter from his new teammates filtered into his earpiece and he parsed it as best he could through the pounding between his temples. Don't get him wrong, Nat's cognitive recalibration was the best thing that'd happened to him all week—which said a lot about the state of his life. But that didn't mean he couldn't whine to himself about it. Key being to himself: if Nat heard him complaining she'd go for round two.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

And he was livid. He'd never been more angry in his life. In his varied and questionable career, he'd be duped, he'd been coerced, he'd been led astray. But he was always under his own power.

Loki'd compromised him down to his core. The artificial fire that had driven him under the god's influence had been replaced. This one was real and Clint's righteous fury would not be satisfied until he brought Loki down himself.

But that was personal. Clint was just responsible enough to know vendettas belonged outside of team operations. So he kept the directions he shouted over his comm short and professional.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

And it was exhilarating to be free, to have control over his own mind. He could shoot who he wanted when he wanted—and he was going to nail as many of these alien bastards as he had arrows in his quiver. No less.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

But…that was the thing. There were too many of them; their numbers multiplying at an absurd rate as more of the damn aliens kept pouring through the portal. He'd known Loki had an army waiting in the wings while he'd been a loyal lackey, but this was ridiculous. And he was doing his best, keeping an eye on all directions from his vantage point—but he couldn't see everything. Too much of their perimeter was out of his direct view.

Six people against an unrelenting invasion? He was used to crazy but this was off the scale.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Really, how the hell—

"Agent Barton!"

Clint jerked, startled by the frantic new voice blasting into his sensitive ears. "Whoa, what!"

"I apologize, there is no time. I am JARVIS."

Ooh, he'd heard enough from Nat to know this guy. Computer? Whatever. "I know who you are. What does Stark want?"

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

"Not him. I have a request for you, Agent. An independent surveillance system is offering to aid in the battle and requires a reporting point. If you agree, it will expand your field of view considerably. Are you interested?"

Man, this guy could talk up a storm. "Uh, what?"

JARVIS' tone sharpened. "It will require utmost secrecy from you. This system is confidential and if you breathe a word of it to anyone, the consequences would be catastrophic and—"

"Dude, I'm a spy. The secrecy part is fine. I meant the field of view. How much coverage?"

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

"All of New York. Possibly the world, but I doubt you'd need that now." JARVIS said.

Clint laughed. "Done! Consider my lips sealed. Do I need to sign anything in blood or…JARVIS?" The sudden silence over the line was deafening; yet again he felt that stab of anxiety in his gut that his overtaxed hearing aids had crapped out mid-mission. But then the comm crackled and another new voice (or was it more than one?) came through.

"Agent Barton, thank you for working with me." The sentence was composed of words from different recordings, spliced together into a patchwork voice. It was kind of cool.

"Sure, no biggie. And I appreciate the help. But less talking, more intel, cool?"

"Of course! The perimeter is holding. Hostiles at your three o'clock and four o'clock. Hostage situation developing on 42nd west of Madison." The new stream of information made Clint grin, overcome by the feeling that maybe this wasn't so impossible after all.

Which of course was a sign he really was losing it.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

"Gotcha," he responded, forwarding the intel to team members in each relevant area. "Keep it coming."


	11. viii

viii.

Two right turns, a straight shot across Park Avenue… Finch calculated they were about five blocks from his safe house. Granted, the direct route lay through the areas of major contest; perhaps a few more detours would be in order. He led them down another alley and checked the block, grimacing at the overhead buzzing of the strange planes.

In the time it had taken him to collect Carlton, the concentration of aliens had dramatically increased in the heart of Midtown. The streets were almost devoid of people and Finch was glad that most civilians were out of danger. But part of him cursed that it made himself and Carlton more visible targets.

He had to give these alien creatures credit for enthusiasm at the very least. What they lacked in organization and efficiency they made up for with speed and sheer numbers.

The effect of which, Finch noted with frustration and cold horror, was that he and Carlton were being herded deeper into Manhattan. Toward the site of invasion and the increasing presence of alien ground troops.

As if the flurry of airborne hostiles wasn't bad enough. Finch jerked to a halt and yanked Carlton back against a shallow doorway as yet another blast of energy struck the street before them. Heat washed over the back of Finch's neck, the thrum of the receding ship adding to the ringing in his ears.

The moment he felt it was safe—what a painfully relative term—he buried his fingers in Carlton's jacket and pulled the man down the street. If they made it around the next corner there should be an alley that, hoping against hope, would take them to the nearest subway entrance. The safe house was becoming a fantasy at this point; their best hope was for shelter from the direct line of fire until the attack waned. If it waned.

So of course the next street was crawling with alien ground troops.

Finch came to abrupt halt. Carlton crashed into his back and it sent a spike of pain up his spine. Finch staggered but Carlton pulled him back up, face white. They pivoted and scrambled back the way they'd come, tripping over each other in their haste. They cleared the corner's edge before Carlton stopped dead in his tracks and it was Finch's turn to run into him. He caught himself on Carlton's jacket sleeve, too breathless to ask. Assuming more ground troops, he peered over the taller man's shoulder and froze.

Coming up the street with deadly, focused intent was Rick Whalen. He stalked toward them with predatory confidence and his gaze never wavered from Carlton.

An impossible choice: to go back through the aliens or to go forward and take their chances.

Or perhaps…

Finch put his hand on Carlton's elbow, holding positon just behind his shoulder. As Whalen drew closer Carlton grew tenser but otherwise seemed utterly frozen. Finch thought with absent relief he was glad he couldn't see the man's face. He was somehow sure it would haunt him. If he lived through this catastrophe.

Whalen began to slow his approach. His lips curved into a wolfish grin and his eyes lit up with clear pleasure. Finch could feel Carlton trembling; his jacket shivered against his fingertips.

He'd expected to be panicking himself by now. Instead he was filled with a strange calm as he watched the perpetrator come closer, stop no more than fifteen feet away. He pictured the street they'd just vacated with perfect clarity.

Let Whalen enjoy his moment. It wouldn't last long.

"Why, Larry Carlton," Whalen shouted over the echoing booms from the adjacent streets. "I've been looking all over for you."

Carlton shook himself, made an abortive step backward. "You won't walk away from this. ASI will make you pay for that ambush."

Whalen cocked his head, one eyebrow rising. "I think I'll walk away just fine. And you with me, as a matter of fact. Don't you want to live? I can get you out of here."

"You can promise nothing of the sort," Finch snapped but Whalen ignored him.

"What do you mean live? Aren't you here to kill me?" Carlton's voice barely carried over the tumult.

Whalen laughed. "Nope. I can save you, get you out of here. All you have to do is answer a few questions for my friends. Least you can do for us after McCorrick blew the package before they could grab it."

"The package—" Carlton choked. Finch tightened his fingers around his elbow but Carlton shook him off. "Of course, you wanted it. Who do you really work for?"

"Carlton," Finch tried again. "He won't save you, you must know that. We need to move now."

"Where can we go?" Carlton's eyes were fixed on Whelan. The man was slowly rolling up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A ring of interconnected circles.

Carlton's jaw slackened; Whalen's grin spread a little more.

"What is that?" Finch frowned. He pulled at Carlton's arm once more and he followed a step this time, stumbling a little.

"Ten rings," Carlton said.

The name didn't strike Finch as familiar but it hardly mattered now. He could hear the scuffle and screeches of the aliens approaching from the next street. As he'd suspected, a few must have caught sight of them as they'd made their ill-timed retreat. They were running out of time.

Whelan began moving forward again, hands outstretched in a parody of a soothing gesture. "Don't worry, we'll be good to you if you return the favor. It doesn't have to be hard at all." But despite his words, his chilling smile indicated he wouldn't be too upset it is was.

It was now or never. Finch tensed, listening intently to the sounds from around the corner. The aliens were almost upon them. "Carlton, run!" He took off in a sprint and pulled on Carlton's arm with all his might.

Carlton lumbered into motion behind him, stiff lurches giving way to long strides.

Whalen pounded after them, almost catching up as Finch dragged Carlton around the corner—straight into the teeth of three alien monsters.

It was clear the creatures had not expected them to come barreling back around. They looked startled, strange guns slack and odd eyes blinking in quick succession. But they must've had some kind of discipline after all and brought their weapons to bear even as Finch and Carlton darted past. Finch knew the scant cover they found behind an overturned car wouldn't last long. He didn't need it to.

A second later Whalen rounded the corner and bowled one of the creatures over, knocking a second off balance. The third swung around to face the immediate threat and Finch lunged away from the scene, Carlton right on his heels.

Finch risked a glance back as they made for another alley and scowled. Whalen made short work of the third alien, having launched himself at its knees and bludgeoning it with its own weapon. He swung it around to slice at the second as Finch took another look. Carlton hadn't bothered and was now a full stride ahead. But as good an idea as that seemed, Finch's third glance made his breath catch in his burning lungs. Whalen had taken a solid stance and raised his stolen staff as if to fire it—aiming straight at Carlton's back.

"Look out," Finch tried to gasp as he threw himself at Carlton, sending them both to the ground. A bolt seared just over their backs and Finch knew this was it. There was no escaping a second shot. He rolled off Carlton and tried to push the shaking man upright and away, futile though it was.

But no second bolt came forth. Instead, the sounds of a scuffle reached Finch's ears and he contorted his rigid neck as far as he could— _Reese!_

His partner was locked in combat with Whalen, smoothly ducking a swing to strike up close. He absorbed a punch so he could twist and throw Whalen over his shoulder, separating him from the weapon as he went. Reese looked far worse for wear but _alive_. He even gave Finch a satisfied smirk before turning back to Whalen.

Finch tried to scramble to his feet but needed Carlton's help to rise, each of them clinging to the other's shoulder as they watched the fight. "Who is…" Carlton breathed as Reese got in two good kicks and blocked a rapid punch.

"A friend," Finch said, wincing as Whalen landed a kick and twisted his leg behind Reese's knee to send him to the ground. But Reese dragged him down and they grappled again, surprisingly well-matched. For a moment, the chaos of the invasion was lost on Finch as he focused on the personal struggle right before his eyes.

But then reality returned as the first alien roused and hauled itself upright, just beyond the fight. Whalen must not have killed it like he had the other two. And now its attention fell on the men before it.

Reese had just gained the upper hand. The impulse not to distract him flared in Finch's brain before he overrode it and shouted, "John, behind you!"

Reese and Whalen both jerked their heads around, clearly spotting the alien at the same time. But Reese was between it and Whalen and the young man wrenched himself from Reese's grip, running straight toward Finch and Carlton. Careful to keep Reese's body between himself and the alien. Finch could read his livid expression in a heartbeat—there was nothing but murder in his eyes now.

Reese stumbled but recovered in a flash, scooping up the discarded weapon. His expression was torn. Whalen was almost upon Finch and Carlton—but the alien was almost upon _him_. He had two targets and time for one shot. And he clearly knew it.

Finch held his breath as Reese raised the staff and fired.

* * *

Reese knew it was luck he'd caught up with Whalen at all. He also knew luck tended to run out fast. Had the fight stayed hand to hand, he could have subdued the kid. So of course that was the perfect cue for one unexpected alien—he hadn't had time to check the bodies. He hated having a hostile he'd thought was down bite him in the ass.

He'd watched Whalen fire the alien staff once. His fingers slid around and found what must be the trigger with ease. The whole weapon was lined with a blue glow, warm against his calloused fingers with a high-pitch whine that teased his ears. Here's hoping the damn thing worked. Now Reese just had to pick his target.

He could eliminate the alien threat and hope Whalen wasn't as fast this time as Reese knew he could be. Or he could fire on Whalen instead and hope the weapon worked before the alien killed him.

He took hasty aim and exhaled sharply. It was an easy choice.

 _See you soon, Jess._

He squeezed the strange trigger and burst of blue-white light erupted from the staff's end. It was almost beautiful in the split second it traveled—before hitting Whalen squarely between the shoulders.


	12. ix

ix.

"So what do I call you?" Clint asked between draws. He and the mysterious surveillance system had fallen into a rhythm so quickly it felt natural. Clint wondered if he could run all his missions with this thing.

"I am the Machine," the unique mishmash of recorded voices answered. "Twelve o'clock. Nine o'clock."

Clint fired on both targets without a second glance. "So you're a computer, like JARVIS?"

"I am a computer program, but I am—seven o'clock—not like JARVIS. Three o'clock. Five o'clock out."

Aim. Breathe out. Release. Then Clint relayed the distant target to Stark. "Then what are you?"

"It is…classified."

"Ok, straight up: that's probably the worst thing you could have said if you wanted me to drop it," Clint grinned. He took down two more targets in quick succession.

"Four o'clock. I assume you are familiar with the phrase 'if I told you I'd have to kill you'?" The cheeky thing even used a recording of Clint's own voice for the punchline.

"Now that's just mean," Clint said before his next draw. "I won't be responsible for my actions if you dangle a carrot like that. You're asking for it."

"Eight o'clock. You can pry all you like, but it will not do you any—"

"Hold up," Clint cut the Machine off as Nat's voice snapped across the regular channel.

"Hawkeye!" She only called him that when she wanted to either mock him or grab his attention. He was going to put money on the latter this time—and sure enough, for a second Clint could do nothing but stare. It looked like she'd stolen one of those alien hovercraft things and taken it for a joyride. And that Loki'd caught on; he was hot on her tail, firing as she swerved.

"Nat, what are you doing?" He didn't even try to strip the incredulity from his voice.

"Uh, a little help!" she shouted, swinging her craft in a wild arc to one side and—oh, how _beautiful_. The perfect shot, lining up like the most wonderful gift in the world. Nat was the best.

"It seems like Agent Romanov is being pursued by…" the Machine began but fell silent when Clint selected a (very special) arrowhead. He drew in one smooth motion. Let himself feel and embrace, just for this moment, the full force of his own rage.

"I got him."

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Loki caught it but Clint had expected that. Step two: real revenge coming right up. Clint triggered the grenade arrowhead and savored the ball of fire as it blossomed right in Loki's face.

It was like so much of his residual tension evaporated along with the smoke. Instant therapy.

But it looked like even that didn't take the god out—oh, there went the Hulk. Problem solved. Time to shelve his personal issues again and refocus on the battle.

"Feel better?" the Machine asked and Clint couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"You have no idea."

"Good," it said. "Eight o'clock."

Clint laughed. "Ok, ok. On it." They slipped back into their rhythm, eliminating targets at a steady pace. Clint had lost sight of Nat but he could still hear her over the main comm. The nearby rumble of thunder and deafening roars of the Hulk were reassuring. He could see Cap fighting on the ground with his oversized Frisbee way better than Clint had expected. And Iron Man zipped around them all while the Machine tracked his trajectories with special care. Clint kept in his zone (Aim. Breathe out. Release.) and felt like the conductor of the world's most violent orchestra.

"You know, this works great," he said over his private channel with the Machine. "Want to make it a hobby?"

"I am not going to divulge more information about my systems, Agent Barton," the Machine sighed in its patchwork way. "One and two o'clock."

"Ok, a, call me Clint, that's just getting weird. But b, you have to get bored sometimes. Couldn't you do with some more excitement? Are you really that busy surveilling whatever it is you normally surveil?"

"Nine o'clock," the Machine said. "Your persistence is admirable."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Clint breathed out, releasing yet another of his dwindling arrows. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

"I knew I would regret this. I assure you I have seen far more—four o'clock, four o'clock!"

The Machine's sudden urgency alarmed Clint and he loosed the next arrow on reflex. His second glance confirmed he'd killed the single remaining alien from a ground cluster that was pretty non-strategic, aside from a few unlucky civilians nearby. "Uh, what the hell?"

But all traces of banter were gone. The Machine rattled off a series of directions that made his blood run cold when it clicked. Clint was the one surrounded now and the aliens were closing fast. It looked like they'd decided he was a major threat after all. And of course they couldn't have better timing. He yanked his last arrow from the alien corpse at his feet and fitted a final arrowhead. Then he took the only sensible course of action: he leapt off the roof.

The Machine broke off its efficient reports to shriek, "What are you _doing_?" But he concentrated on lining up the shot and triggering the grappling hook—and then he couldn't hear anything over the sound of shattering glass. He smashed through a solid plate window and felt the impact crack through his ankles and shudder up his whole skeleton.

The next thing he knew he was lying on threadbare office carpet amid piles of glass shards, still too stunned to move. The grey around his vision receded and sound started filtering back into his buzzing ears.

"—Barton! Agent Barton, answer me! I can see you are moving, please answer me. Agent Barton!" The Machine repeated its message steadily. Clint got the sense it had been doing that for a while.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I'm here. I thought you'd seen everything." He cut himself off with a groan as he tried to roll to his side.

"Stay still!" the Machine snapped. "I directed JARVIS to send help. Paramedics are on their way. And your sarcasm is appreciated."

"Aw, you're a sweetheart," Clint sighed, sliding back to the ground. "Give me your address and I'll send flowers."

"Nice try," the Machine said. Clint let his eyelids slip closed. The stunned numbness was fading fast and he was going to appreciate serious painkillers very soon; he could already hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. Talk about service. "Please stay conscious," the Machine said. "And…it was a pleasure, Agent Barton. Thank you."

Clint grinned to himself. It had been kind of fun. "Right back at you." And then the medics burst through the door and he drifted.

* * *

Reese kept his eyes on Whalen as he dropped mid-stride, crashing hard to the rubble strewn street. The last thing he wanted was for Whalen to get up again. Not when he likely couldn't help Finch anymore. But Whalen looked down for good. Reese pressed his lips together, yearning for time to check the body to make sure. Thinking of everything he should have said to Finch before now. But by all rights Reese should already be dead—the alien's foul breath ghosted across the back of his neck. No time. He spun to face the creature with a desperate strike.

But he found a heap of limbs where his assailant should have been. A long black arrow protruded from the dead creature's neck.

Reese stood there and stared at it, trying to reconcile expectation with reality as adrenaline faded from his blood. Finch limped up next to him and halted at his shoulder. "Mr. Reese…" he said. He sounded breathless. It shook Reese from his stupor and he began scanning the street for further threats.

Another man stood where Finch had left him and looked utterly shell-shocked. Reese couldn't blame him at all.

"I think perhaps it would be best to seek shelter," Finch continued, regaining his customary poise. He waved a hand toward the other man. "This is Lawrence Carlton. Whalen was trying to abduct him, although I suspect elimination would have suited him just as well." Reese gave him one sharp nod and they moved back toward Carlton, the echoes of the surrounding battle registering again in Reese's ears. He paused to check Whalen's body and confirm the kill before moving on.

"Where were you trying to go?" Reese asked as he pushed Carlton before him, keeping one eye on Finch and the other on the surrounding street. The aliens seemed to be moving further into the center of Midtown but Reese could tell it wasn't over yet. Finch directed them into the nearest alley and they hustled along the block.

"Originally, a safe house," Finch said. Reese kept a hand behind his shoulder to steady him as they jogged. Carlton snorted as he tripped over an overturned garbage can and wobbled. Reese made no move to stabilize him.

"We didn't quite make it," Carlton commented once he'd righted himself. Reese could tell he was trembling, clearly coming down off his own adrenaline high.

Reese nodded at him. "So I see," he yanked them both to a stop at the alley's mouth and did a cursory street scan. "Backup plan was the subway?"

"Yes," Finch pointed a station out, evening out his breathing in scant seconds. "I think in light of the situation that is still your best option, Mr. Carlton."

Carlton blinked at him, one hand resting on the dingy wall. "My best chance? What about you?"

Reese slid his gaze to meet Finch's and nodded once. They'd done their job. "This is where we leave you," Finch said. "Mr. Whalen is no longer a threat to you. You should consider evacuation."

"Right," Carlton said. "He's dead now." He took a few steps toward the subway, flinching back when several blasts echoed down the street. "Right. But…how do I thank you?"

"Your survival is thanks enough." Reese motioned toward the subway station. Carlton looked them both in the eye, nodded once and headed for the station. Reese watched him descend the steps before turning back to Finch and raising his eyebrows. "Back to the library?"

Finch nodded slowly. "I think that would be best. It's far enough away from the main battle."

"I think I can get us there in one piece," Reese said and gave Finch a faint grin. Finch just stared back at him, face blank. "Finch? We need to move."

Finch blinked and took one halting step forward. Reese stepped beside him and watched his employer limp through the debris strewn street. Neither said a word as they made their laborious way through the few city blocks to the library's lower entrance, careful to stay out of sight of the remaining aliens.

Just as they were about to duck into the tunnel, the ground shook with several monstrous crashes. Reese watched as an alien ship hovering down the next block fell out of the sky—as if it were a toy helicopter whose batteries had died. Rather than investigate, Reese hustled Finch into the tunnel and up into the relative safety of the library. It was miraculously undisturbed. For a moment it felt like nothing outside had been real, like they were starting a new day and ready to track down a new number.

The illusion lasted the few minutes it took Finch to bring up several news reports on the invasion. It seemed Tony Stark had performed some selfless sacrifice and used his Iron Man suit to close the invasion portal—the aliens had collapsed en masse and it was over.

New York had survived an alien invasion.

Reese perched on one of the cluttered tables and grinned to himself, feeling a sense of post-mission elation. "Well, I have to say. That was one of our more interesting numbers." Finch was silent, his back turned to Reese as he paged through news reports. Reese watched him for a long moment, smile fading. "Finch?"

"I was afraid you had died, Mr. Reese."

Reese blinked. He stood and moved around the desk but Finch kept his face tilted away. "It was close. I would have if it weren't for Robin Hood."

Finch frowned, eyebrows drawn down to the thick frames of his glasses. "No. Before that. When Whalen turned on you. The call cut out."

"Ah." Reese waited and soon enough Finch raised his eyes to meet Reese's. "We've lost phones before, Finch."

"Yes, I know," Finch sighed. "But part of me couldn't help but think this was the last time. It was during an unprecedented phenomenon, after all."

Reese grinned. "You mean alien invasion."

One corner of Finch's mouth twitched. "As you say. It made me think. I have…" he took a deep breath. "I've made a number of mistakes in the past, Mr. Reese. I will likely continue to, and I wanted to apologize now that I have the chance. I want you to know that I do trust you to do your job and…"

Reese leaned forward, at eye level with the shorter man. "I know. We both made mistakes in that case. And in this one. We won't make them again."

Finch gave him a graceful nod. "You are truly a man of few words."

Reese shrugged. "I make them count," he said.

"You're certainly not wrong. I'm sure we'll manage to find plenty of new mistakes to make as it is," Finch said as his face shifted into a small smile.

Reese laughed. He knew they'd be fine and it felt good. To be alive, to have stopped the number in the end. Saving the day and surviving the battle—who could ask for more? And the next time a number came up: they'd be ready for it.

If aliens couldn't stop them, nothing would.


End file.
